


If Wings Could Grant us Flight

by violetflute



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetflute/pseuds/violetflute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kwon Jiyong always overworks himself and deprives himself of sleep all in an attempt to follow his passion and make music. When Lee Seunghyun, Seungri, offers him an escape from the work,  Jiyong reluctantly accepts it. His entire life, his relationship with Choi Seunghyn, his band, are affected and Jiyong loses everything he once loved and lived for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Butterflies and Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little iffy about writing fic about real people, but I'm having a lot of fun creating this. This is the first fic I've ever decided to finish and publish, so I hope you guys like it! c:

A forest of staves, adorned with treble and bass leaves, carved with graphite and eraser smears, and set upon a mountainous range of creases was an image that had seared itself into Kwon Jiyong’s mind, an image that ceaselessly inhabited even the backs of his eyelids in the rare case that he allowed himself to close his eyes. The blond man could hardly remember what sleep felt like and he began to feel almost inhuman due to the deprivation. Like a machine fueled by caffeine and passion, he wove together threads of notes and rhythms, strings of rhymes and lyrics, to create regal tapestries.

Now, however, his loom was stopped, something almost perceivable blocking production. Jiyong deplored admitting defeat, so he continued to bore holes into the pathetically empty staves with his eyes in hopes that a few chords would materialize before him. When nothing on the page changed, a fire, the kind that slowly burns at a fuse, grew white-hot inside him.

“Goddamn it!” Finally the flame had caressed the gunpowder inside Jiyong, and in a fit of frustration and anger, he threw several of the blank pages across the room, causing the pages to flutter like delicate butterfly wings. Those wings cooled the nuclear heat within Jiyong’s chest and allowed him a moment to breathe. Jiyong ran his fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the fairly short locks and letting loose a quiet growl.

The calm of his storm was interrupted by the mechanical click of the handle of the door to his room. The door was flung open, cutting through the low, yellow light with a penetrating white flare. Jiyong threw a dark, piercing glare, augmented by the smeared, two-day old kohl surrounding his fatigued eyes, towards the intruder. The other man, slightly shorter than Jiyong with hair that was either the colour of hot, bitter coffee or tar pitch depending on the light, sauntered into the tense bedroom, seeming to brush off the emotion in the air as if it were a pesky insect.

“You haven’t even moved a muscle since I was in here last night, hyung,” the newcomer remarked. It was true. Jiyong had been awake, laying across the pure white sheets of his bed and attempting to write music since around six the previous evening.

“Last night? What time is it, Seungri?” Jiyong questioned. He had not realised how much time had actually flown by him.

“It’s eight thirty, hyung. Have you not slept?”

“No. I was busy,” Jiyong looked at the mess of butterfly wings he had made of his sheet music. It is not the first time he has allowed more than a full day to pass while he sits at his musical loom, weaving and stitching until his work is perfect.

The younger man grinned slightly and then looked back to his hyung with cocoa eyes that hid secrets. “So hyung,” he tentatively began. “I found something a while ago that I’ve been wanting you to try.”

Jiyong gave a confused look. “What did you find?”

“Hang on a sec.” Seungri fished around in his pocket for a moment before retrieving a small bit of saran wrap surrounding what looked like a small bit of dirt. “This,” Seungri continued, “is what I found. This little piece of heaven makes you feel better than sex. She gives you wings.”

“Seungri what the hell is that?” Jiyong asked, his voice traversing to a higher dynamic than he originally wished it to. He eyed the small piece of...whatever was in his friend’s hand for a moment. His tired, makeup-smeared eyes widened in realization. He looked up at the younger man with a gaze comprised of surprise, a twinge of anger, and very faint fear. “Is that a drug? You realize what can happen to you if you get caught with this, right? Where the hell did you get that?” His voice became more frantic as questions flew from him like bullets from a machine gun powered by the mixture of emotions currently swirling in his fatigue-clouded mind.

Seungri moved towards the blond man and put a steadying hand on the older’s shoulder. “Yeah, I know. Deep shit with the law, years of prison, whatever. Not like I haven’t gotten out of deep shit before,” Seungri uttered with a tone that pushed the threat of imprisonment off as if it were a child’s game.

Jiyong felt a brand new blend of emotions due to the careless tone of his friend over such a serious subject, especially one that could cost him, and the entirety of Big Bang, dearly. However, he also experienced an overpowering curiosity, a curiosity so strong that it won over every other cloud of emotion in his head, every sliver of reason and doubt he possessed.With a sigh of what seemed like defeat, Jiyong very hesitantly allowed the magic words to pass his lips.

“So how do you use this stuff?”

Seungri flashed an excited, almost sly smile. “Just watch what I do, hyung.” Leaning over the desk Jiyong had been slaving over, the younger of the two produced a lighter, a syringe, cotton balls, hypodermic needles, and something that resembled a pot meant for a dollhouse. Seungri laid the objects out on the desk along with the small bag of the drug. He surveyed his tools carefully before realizing he was missing something. “Water,” he spoke to himself simply before exiting the room. The onyx black haired man returned to the desk with a bottle of water and continued preparing a shot.

Jiyong watched, intrigued, as the younger man performed almost gracefully with the just recently formerly off-limits tools. Seungri poured the water and the light brown dust into the tiny pot and then held a flame underneath it until the muddy solution began to bubble. After having boiled the concoction to his liking, he rolled up a cotton ball and allowed it to soak up all of the liquid. The plastic wrapping crinkled as he opened a new needle. After securing the needle to the syringe, he suctioned the dark brown liquid into the barrel.

“Give me your arm,” Seungri commanded. Jiyong dubiously complied. Seungri tapped the bend of Jiyong’s arm several times to try to find a vein. After finding a suitable candidate, he pressed the needle into the pale skin and slowly pushed the plunger until all of the fluid was successfully deposited into the leader’s bloodstream.

Jiyong’s eyes rolled back and his jaw dropped slightly, as the opiate found all of the receptors in his body, slowly engulfing his entire being in a dark wave of glowing warmth. His gusting breath diminished to a calm breeze, his bass heartbeat quieted to a soft marimba sound. Jiyong felt as though he could be swept up by the slightest blowing of the wind and that he could spread his hypnotic wings and glide along with it. His now blurred mind was silent, not a thought could pass through the heavenly barrier. Finally, his drooping chocolate eyes, now with pupils hardly the size of a speck of pepper, opened to observe his surroundings from his new, unearthly viewpoint.

The world seemed to have changed tempo from two hundred beats per minute to sixty. Jiyong felt entirely placid, as if that first wave would be the only to ever crest, leaving his waters completely still for the rest of eternity. He watched from his euphoric sideline as the other man in the room cooked another shot and injected it into himself. Jiyong’s glazed eyes watched the narcotic effects seized his friend, the other going nearly limp and allowing the chemical to conquer him entirely.

The younger finally opened his coffee eyes, his pupils also microscopic. His dreaming gaze cascaded over the older. Grinning, Seungri opened his mouth again and slowly, quietly slurred, “What’d I tell ya hyung? Is yong* a beautiful lady or what?”

Jiyong would not have even registered the words if not for hearing part of his name in the sentence. “Yong?” he almost whispered. “Is this shit named for me?” He let out a soft chuckle at the idea that something so beautifully intoxicating would be his namesake.

“The actual name is heroin, but I know they call it ‘yong’ in some places.” The words came out of the tranquilized man’s mouth like a river plagued with uncounted rapids and jagged rocks poking above the water.

“Heroin,” Jiyong tasted every letter, every syllable of the word on his tongue. It tasted like freedom. It tasted like love.

“Whenever you want more, I’ve got you, hyung,” Seungri assured the blond. He knew Jiyong would come back to him. Even if the older was not coming back to him for the reasons he wished, he would still be coming back. “First shot’s free, but next time you gotta pay. This shit isn’t free and it isn’t cheap.”

Jiyong nodded at the younger. _What’s the harm?_ He thought. _Just a few times won’t hook me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *yong (용) - the Korean word for "dragon," a street name for heroin


	2. Highs and Headaches

Surrounded by inklike darkness with only the companionship of the glacial atmosphere, Jiyong slowly, aimlessly wandered through some sort of abysmal room. From the corner his vision, he spotted a bright white dot fall behind him. At first thinking it was a snowflake due to the ever-dropping temperature of the void, he turned to it to get a better look. The “snowflake” was found to be a purely white moth flitting about, seeming to be bioluminous as a result of it’s bright, harsh contrast against the shadowy expanse of the room. The small creature started to fly away and Jiyong followed it. It lead him to a single white, thornless rose.

The moth landed delicately on the flower and Jiyong watched as the blossom calmly wilted, almost elegantly transforming from its regal, perfect beauty into brittle, browned death. The moth seemed to look Jiyong in the eyes before daintily flapping its fragile wings once more, this time in the direction of the blond man.  
Deafening stabs from the small alarm clock inches from the musician’s head harshly ripped him from his monochrome reverie after seemingly fleeting seconds of rest. The staccato sounds assaulted his ears in such a way that he awoke with a start. Jiyong’s eyes fluttered open and stared at the pale, off-white ceiling while memories of the previous night were recounted mentally and physically. He felt like he had been hit by a truck several times over. His head was pounding to the accented beat of his heart, the early-morning glow from the window was just a bit too bright, his usually weightless body felt massive. It was as if sobriety had torn his wings off feather by feather as soon as they grew, and for that he hated the fiend.

He swung his halfway limp arm over to the bedside table to punish the obnoxious alarm clock for so rudely waking him with its incessant cries. The digital display glowed red with the numbers “6:30.” Jiyong sat up slowly and slid to the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the coarse carpeted floor. Pressing a hand to his forehead in a vain attempt to keep the pounding in his head at bay, he slowly stood and walked to the closet on the other side of the small bedroom with unstable, shaking legs. He quickly changed out of the previous night’s outfit into a black t-shirt that hung away from his lithe form and white jeans that looked as though they were painted onto his thin, long legs.

Jiyong never really bothered to dress to the nines on rehearsal days anyway, and the hammering, unstable comedown from the drug the previous night made him all the more apathetic towards his fashion choices. After deeming himself fairly presentable to the other members, he left the bedroom and walked down the three-doored hallway that led to the kitchen of the dorm. There he found Youngbae, still shirtless, toned muscles shown off, and in light blue, fleece pajama pants, cooking ramyun for the rest of the members’ breakfast. _Does he even own a shirt?_ Jiyong thought to himself.

The shorter musician turned to look when he heard someone else enter the kitchen. He smiled at the blond man, whose paler than usual face was marred with streaks and smudges of eyeliner. Youngbae left the ramen to boil for a few more minutes and smiled welcomingly at Jiyong. “Morning, sunshine. You look like a half dead racoon,” he joked.

Jiyong scoffed and rolled his eyes at the other man. “At least I bothered to dress myself.” He moved to the counter and leaned on it for support since his legs were still not working about as well as those of a newborn foal.

“Are you feeling alright?” Youngbae asked with genuine concern.

“Headache,” the blond replied simply. The vague response was apparently good enough for his mohawk-wearing friend. Youngbae simply shrugged and turned back to the stove to attend to the breakfast. A few moments of comfortable silence passed between the two, aside from the almost perceivable sound of a hammer relentlessly striking the anvil that was Jiyong’s head.

Finally, the silence was peacefully broken by the soft, muffled click of a bedroom doorknob turning. A slightly irritated, disheveled Kang Daesung emerged, sporting his pajamas of choice: neon green and yellow-striped flannel pants and a grey t-shirt. His bed-styled charcoal black hair pointed in an infinite combination of directions, his dark eyes threw pointed glares wherever he glanced.

Youngbae pulled the ramyun off the heat and set it aside for the time being before turning to the disarrayed newcomer. “You’re all cranky too? Is there something in the water?”

“Yeah, and he’s been in it for half a fucking hour and I can’t get a damn shower yet,” Daesung answered with a razor tongue.

Jiyong spoke up then. “Who? Ri?”

“Who the fuck else would it be?” The youngest of the three seemed to have vision that reddened by the second.

Youngbae returned to preparing breakfast and set out the pot of ramyun and five mismatched bowls around it, along with enough pairs of chopsticks for everyone. “Daesung,” he called. “Come sit down and chill out. You can get a shower after breakfast.” The disgruntled vocalist stomped over to the table and landed heavily, and noisily, in the wooden chair before serving himself and angrily stuffing an enormous mass of noodles in his mouth. Youngbae laughed at the ridiculous Daesung, earning him a piercing glare from the younger man.

Another door opened and a very sleepy, almost cute looking Choi Seunghyun stepped out in baggy, grey sweatpants and a black hoodie with the phrase “One of a Kind” written across the front. Jiyong’s entire body glowed with warmth when he saw the other rapper come out, not just because he was wearing one of Jiyong’s hoodies, but because he was glad to finally see the man after about two days without contact despite their close proximity. He wanted to immediately trap Seunghyun in a hug and feel those familiar lips on his, but their secret bound them away from each other whenever they were in the way of the overly analytic gaze of the public or under the attentive eyes of their friends.

Seunghyun entered the kitchen and brightened up, slightly surfacing from his half-asleep state, and was most likely due to both the presence of food and the presence of his lover. One look at the blond told him there was something amiss; Jiyong had a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the countertop, his eyes were darkened by more than just aged eyeliner, and his legs, usually strong and stable, were fragile looked as though they would collapse at any given moment. The momentary brightness of Seunghyun’s expression was erased by these facts, and he stood just a few feet away from Jiyong just in case of the event that those legs did fail.

“Are you two just gonna stand there and not say anything or are you gonna come eat?” Youngbae’s voice roused Seunghyun and Jiyong from their dazes. Seunghyun looked up to see the scene before him, a shirtless Youngbae eating ramyun with a frazzled Daesung, and he smiled sweetly.

“We’ll come eat. No need to be hostile, shorty,” Seunghyun rumbled in his low, smooth timbre, gaining him a few ignored swears from Youngbae. He locked his gaze with the still disordered Jiyong, and nodded towards the table as an invitation to go eat together. Jiyong smiled an invisible breath of a smile and followed Seunghyun to the table.

“Where’s Seungri?” The oldest of the group inquired.

Daesung spoke through a mouthful of angrily chewed ramyun, “He’s in the sho-” He was interrupted by the inelegant entrance of the wet-haired maknae. Jiyong took a good look at Seungri, observing his nearly nonexistent pupils, the subtle purple colouring in the bend of his left arm, and his unbalanced movement. It was obvious that the younger man’s brain was swimming in some foreign chemical, and Jiyong guessed it was the same drug that the two had shared the previous night. Seungri seemed to glide across the room and he nearly missed the chair when he gave himself to gravity. “I’m here,” he spoke, his voice hanging on to the vowels like the heroin hung on to his opioid receptors.

Daesung eyed the maknae for a moment, almost sensing something off, but disregarded it when the fact that he could now go get a shower hit him. “Bout damn time,” was all he muttered before storming out of the room. The atmosphere around that table was tense for Jiyong, if not for the whole table. Breakfast passed in silence, comfortable for some and awkward for others, and was without further event.

All the members returned to their respective rooms to ready themselves for their rehearsal. Jiyong returned to his bed while he waited in the others to get ready, and he used the extra time to try to rid himself of the furious throbbing in his head. After downing a few Advil and shutting his eyes for a while, the pain eased and the room stopped spinning so much. Thirty minutes passed before Jiyong heard a gentle knock on the door.

“Whaaat,” he called out with annoyance to the disembodied knock. The door opened and the image of his lover, his Seunghyun, who was now wearing the same hoodie as before and some rather tight red jeans, immediately eradicated his mood of discontent and drew a soft smile to his lips. “Seunghyun,” he called in a voice quiet as a breeze and warm as a flame. Being around the older man granted Jiyong wings, wings made of feather and sinew rather than of cotton and paper. Seunghyun’s existence struck Jiyong’s flint heart and lit his body and mind on fire, setting off an unquenchable, passionate inferno that encompassed his entire being.

Seunghyun shut the door silently behind him, wishing not to announce his presence in Jiyong’s room to the whole dorm. He glided to the bed where Jiyong lay and sat beside him. “Jiyong,” he rumbled, placing a soft hand in the blonde hair beneath him. “Are you feeling ill?”

Jiyong sat up, letting the loving hand fall to the mattress, and looked into the deep, intense gaze of his lover. “Just a headache,” he lied through his smile.

“You need to stop overworking yourself and get some sleep for once, Ji. I worry about you.” Seungyhun knew this statement was slightly hypocritical, for he would lie awake at night wondering whether the younger was slaving over his masterpieces of lines and dots that seemed like a foreign tongue of whose grace he would remain ignorant.

“I’ll get more rest,” Jiyong lied again, this time less out of fear and more out of a humourous desire to speak an empty promise that could not hold much credence in the first place.

A few short nanoseconds that felt like eternities of heavy tension passed silently between the two men, a span simply spent by the two looking into each other’s eyes as if those eyes held the universe of the looker. Slowly, Jiyong leaned towards Seunghyun, not faltering to maintain their shared gaze. Suddenly their lips crashed together, fanning the red flames within each of them as if it were the first time all over again. They told each other without words, “I missed you,” and, “I love you.” This was Jiyong’s nirvana. He could feel his bright wings spreading whenever he touched Seunghyun. They allowed minimal space between them for a very short moment just to take in each other’s being with glazed over eyes before colliding with each other again for a deeper kiss, this time more desperate and conveying, “I want you,” and “I need you.” 

Jiyong’s arms wrapped around the older’s neck and he pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together. The fingers of Seunghyun’s right hand were tangled in the mess of blonde hair on Jiyong’s head while the other hand held firmly to the younger’s small, delicate waist. Jiyong traced the outline of Seunghyun’s lips with the tip of his tongue, begging for entrance. Seunghyun grinned against his lover’s lips and slipped his tongue into Jiyong’s mouth. He put a hand on Jiyong’s chest and slowly, gently pushed him down into the sheets and wedged a knee in between the blond’s small thighs, all without breaking their now frenzied kiss.

Jiyong’s hands now traveled down Seunghyun’s back, scratching lightly at the thick, annoying fabric of the hoodie. One of Seunghyun’s hands snuck agonizingly slowly down Jiyong’s shirt, past the waistband of his jeans, and rested on the bulge in the smaller man’s jeans, rewarding Seunghyun with a moan from Jiyong, a very quiet moan muffled by lips and tongues and love.

Seunghyun grinned slyly. “Hardly anything and you’re already worked up, Ji.”

“It’s been a while,” Jiyong breathlessly defended himself.

“And whose fault is that?” Seunghyun began to rub Jiyong through the now obnoxious clothing, earning him small groans and sharp breaths of pleasure. The blond began to press back against Seunghyun’s hand, begging for more skin and less cloth.

Four loud knocks on the door caused the two lovers to freeze in place, petrified for a moment before detaching from each other once again, much to their disdain.

Daesung’s voice, now much less irritated, sounded from behind the wooden barrier. “Jiyong, we’re all ready to go when you are.” The voice reminded the two men that they most certainly not the only two people in the world and that they had obstacles to pass today before they could lose themselves to each other.

“Be out in a minute,” the leader called back. Jiyong pouted and looked back to Seunghyun hopefully, eyes still glazed and brain still swimming in endorphins, as if he were in search of a reason to skip practice. Seunghyun smiled and planted one last, chaste kiss on Jiyong’s soft lips before standing.

“We’d better go,” the older said, “before I get myself carried away with you.” Jiyong giggled slightly and pulled himself out of the comfort of his bed.

“I guess if we have to.” With their hearts, and Jiyong’s head, pounding out accented sixteenth note rhythms, the two left their affections in the bedroom and walked out to meet the other waiting members.


End file.
